Something to Call Your Own
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Brian Doyle had never intended to be a doctor in Africa. Then again, Brian Doyle never intended on a lot of things. (Outsider POV)


Title: Something to Call Your Own

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: I wrote this for lena7142 when she was feeling under the weather. Becuase it always helps when fictional characters feel WAY worse. Beta given by penless. This one is kind of different - an outsider POV :)

Summary: Brian Doyle had never intended to be a doctor in Africa. Then again, Brian Doyle never intended on a lot of things.

Brian Doyle had never really intended to travel halfway around the world to be a doctor. He'd become a doctor, after all, because it was the only thing challenging enough to be interesting, and his high school physics teacher had pissed him off enough to avoid engineering, which he had deemed the only suitable alternative.

In general, Brian was competitive and smart, and that applied to his studies and every part of his damn life. So when the top hospitals wanted more than top grades, impeccable service, and top notch diagnosis skill, Brian set about improving himself. Community service. Volunteer hours.

And then Brian had ended up in Africa.

Okay, so it hadn't been_ quite _that simple, but sometimes it seemed that way to him. One day he was filling out more applications, and when one of his attendings suggested an exchange in Africa, he'd been so set on pleasing the woman that he'd just filled it out, too. It probably wasn't a surprise that he'd been accepted, and everyone had been so damn proud of him, lauding his efforts and his capabilities and everything, that saying no just hadn't been an option.

With all the excitement and well wishes, he didn't have time to second guess anything until he was there.

In Africa.

Mosquitoes, lower standards of living, malaria.

Medicine with less means, less pay, less _everything._

Brian Doyle had never intended to be a doctor in Africa. Then again, Brian Doyle never intended on a lot of things.

That didn't mean those weren't the best things in the end.

-o-

It was a busy day.

That wasn't saying much; most days were busy. But Brian was especially far behind today, trying to keep up with his paperwork and somehow streamline more patients into x-ray after a group of patients came in from a nasty pile up on the highway. People were crying; people were yelling; people were bleeding. And all Brian could do was basic triage until another OR opened up and x-ray stopped processing patients at the rate of one per decade.

So when a gunshot wound showed up in Curtain Two, Brian hadn't really been thinking much about it. It hadn't been flagged by the admit nurse as anything too serious, but Brian knew that may or may not mean anything. Without anything else to do except sit and stare at patients lined up in the queue to get the hell out of the ER, Brian grabbed the chart, turned for the curtain and opened it.

And then blinked.

And then, despite his better professional judgment, stared.

"Well, that's hardly reassuring," the man on the bed said in perfect American English. He was sitting upright, legs dangling over the edge. His hand was held aloft, bloody fingers clearly visible even as he held a tattered and stained towel over the palm of his hand.

"I reckon you could take it for a compliment," another voice chimed in, a Scottish accent plain - the man at the bedside, tipped back in one of the waiting room chairs, hair dark and spiky, face dusty and jacket smeared slightly with blood. He shrugged. "He is simply overwhelmed by how roguishly handsome you look with such a garish injury."

The man on the bed snorted.

Brian made a face, shaking his head and walking forward again. He glanced at the chart, trying out the name scrawled across the top. "Mr... Garringer?" he asked, looking up again.

The man's face darkened with a scowl. "I don't care if you know my name," he snapped. "I do care if you can please look at the hole in my hand and tell my idiot friend here that it isn't serious and that we can go."

Brian frowned, giving the chart one last look for anything noteworthy - security contractor, stable vitals, through-and-through in the left hand - before putting it down and reaching up to unwrap the damaged limb. "Why don't we just take a look," he said conversationally, pulling at the bloody bandage.

Garringer relinquished his hand, rolling his eyes. "Gee, another brilliant suggestion," he muttered. "I'm feeling so much better than you dragged me to a hospital for this."

Carefully, Brian undid the gauze, squinting to see through the blood. It was a gunshot, through-and-through, right through the middle of the hand. "Well, your friend is right," he said, rotating the hand just slightly and wincing. "We'll need to schedule an x-ray to see if you've done any damage to the bones and tendons."

The man in the chair smiled smugly. "Told you."

"I never said that the doctors wouldn't try to treat it," Garringer said crossly. "I simply said it was unnecessary. I'm the one with the hole in my hand. If there was still major damage, would I be able to do this?"

To prove his point, Garringer wiggled his fingers, one by one.

"That is a good sign," Brian conceded. "But we'll still want the films to be sure. Better safe than sorry."

"A very wise motto," the friend said.

Brian pulled up a tray from the wall, undoing a pack of fresh gauze. He glanced at Garringer's friend, then back at Garringer. "You two here on business?"

"Would someone come to this place for pleasure?" Garringer asked, face taut as Brian rewrapped his hand.

"Aye, we are on a short assignment in your...distinctive city," the man said.

Brian nodded vaguely. "Security contractors?" he asked, a little dubious. Brian had little time to be political, but he'd spent enough time here to like the groups of outsiders who came in and caused trouble. The local population had enough to work through without terrorists, security contractors, and politically-motivated groups to come in and try to redirect things. All it caused was fighting; all it caused was death.

All it caused was a mess Brian could never keep up with, overflowing the hospital beds and filling up the morgue with John Does faster than they could bury them.

"Let me guess," Garringer said. "You don't approve."

"I'm just trying to get a sense of what happened here," Brian said, neatly tying off the bandage and stepping back. "You've got a hole in your hand, pal. Someone shot you or you've got pretty bad aim."

At the bedside, the man smirked. "I understand that security contractors do not have the best reputations, but I assure you, our motives are good here," he said.

Brian eyed him skeptically. "So you want to tell me how your friend got shot?"

The man pursed his lips, drawing a breath. "That...is a bit of an interesting story."

"No, it's not," Garringer interjected. "One of our clients was concerned about a weapons shipment that got knocked off in the region, thought maybe it ended up in the wrong hands. We came, checked it out. We found the shipment; I got shot."

"Well that is a painfully abridged version," the friend said. "It was really quite dramatic. And we were making every effort to resolve the conflict with diplomacy and reason."

"Or just sneaking in and taking the weapons back," Garringer said.

"The only hiccup was the lone guard we encountered," the man continued. "A tussle ensued and I am afraid that I ended up in a bit of a pickle. Lucky sod got a leg up on me, and I was quite afraid for my life when my good friend here came in to disarm the man."

Brian looked at him, a little incredulous. Then he looked at Garringer.

Garringer shrugged. "Okay, that part is mostly true."

Closing his mouth, Brian furrowed his brow. "Okay, then," he said. "But, uh, how did you get show in the hand? That's pretty damn unlikely."

"Not if you're disarming a man _with _you hand," the friend said enthusiastically.

Brian was confused.

"He reached out and grabbed the gun, barrel first!" he said. "Took it, right in the palm and twisted so the aim was not directed right through my skull."

"It was a tactical decision and the fastest way to end the conflict," Garringer said, nonplussed.

"Brilliance and bravery," the friend chimed in. "A truer hero you will never meet."

Brian shook his head. "But he shot you."

Garringer glared at him. "Thank you for your expert medical opinion, doctor."

"It was an undesirable side effect," the friend conceded. "But, it by no means, lessens the height of his absolute and unparalleled fight for what is good and right. He saved my life, and willingly sacrificed his hand."

"I didn't think he'd have time to pull the trigger," Garringer said.

Brian pressed his lips together. "Okay," he said. "We'll get you into x-ray." He picked up the chart. "Have you been given anything for the pain?"

Garringer made a face. "This? This is hardly painful."

"You have a hole. In your hand," Brian reminded him.

"Yeah, and if you try to give me any of your third-world medication, I will put a hole through your hand, too," Garringer threatened.

Brian stared.

"He is a mite grumpy, all things considered," his friend asserted. "But as for now, I think he'll be fine without."

"Right," Brian said slowly. "I'll, um, be back." He paused, loitering. "Don't go anywhere."

Garringer glared, his bandaged hand still aloft. His friend smiled cheerily. "Never fear!" he said. "We'll be awaiting your return with great anticipation!"

Brian forced a smile, nodded once, and then went back into the hall.

-o-

It took him longer than he intended to get back - a major trauma, a patient crashing, and a fight in the waiting room had been more pressing concerns - but threre'd been some miracle in x-ray, and Brian jumped on the chance to shuffle Garringer through. Partly because he was pretty damn interested in seeing those x-ray and judging how such a slight man was able to sit and talk entirely coherently with a hole in his hand.

This time, he came in with a smile. "Good news," he said proudly. "They've got a spot for you up in x-ray."

Garringer was no longer sitting. He was still holding his hand stiffly upright - a smart decision, really, helping control the flow of blood, and in that sense, possibly the pain - but he was no longer sitting. Now he was pacing.

He snarled at Brian, despite the joviality of his announcement. Or maybe because of it.

"That is splendid news," his friend said.

"Yeah," Brian said, a little uncertain as he eyed Garringer. He was still moving - pretty well for a guy who had been shot - and Brian wondered if it would be a good idea to set up an IV. "You sure you don't want something for the pain? Even if we just flush you with fluids - it'd take five minutes to set up an IV."

"Five minutes of more people jabbing at my skin," Garringer snapped. "I'm fine."

"You look a little pale..."

"Because I've got a hole in my hand and you're off gallivanting around the hospital!"

"Ah," his friend said, leaning forward a bit in his seat. "His disposition has got a wee bit stressed over the last ten minutes or so. We may want to hurry things along, yeah?"

Brian frowned. "What did you say your name was again?"

The friend brightened. "Graham Dunham," he said.

"And you're a...?"

"Friend," Graham supplied with a winning smile. "John and I, we go way back. We've had many good times together, many good jobs. Some interesting times, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Of course he can," Garringer muttered. "Because I'm sitting here with a hole in my hand."

"Right," Brian said, deciding to ignore the strange friendship - two very unlike men in a career that wasn't exactly known for its camaraderie - and focusing back on the task at hand. "So, I'm going to get a nurse-"

"I can _walk,_" Garringer said sharply.

"Well, I can see that, Mr. Garringer," Brian said. "But hospital policy-"

"Can shove it up my ass," Garringer said, going to the curtain. He used his good hand to open it. "Now are we going left or right or do I need to start waving my bloody hand around until I get you fired?"

Brian's mouth dropped open.

Graham was on his feet, brushing by Brian. "You best tell him, lad," he said. "He only listens to me so much."

"Left," Brian said, having no choice but to follow them out of the curtain area and down the hall toward x-ray.

-o-

When they got there, Brian found that one of the other doctors had tried to take his spot. He had to sweet talk the tech, but managed to get Garringer back to the front of the line. By now, the man was pale and visibly sweating, so when Brian told him to lie on the gurney, this time he complied.

"Alright," Brian said. "The tech will walk you through it and then I'll make sure a nurse comes to bring you back down before we discuss your results and decide what's next."

"Wonderful," Garringer muttered.

Brian nodded, moving to leave, but the second he got in the hallway, he found Graham still following him.

"Doctor," Graham said. "If I may have a minute of your time."

Brian sighed. A minute of his time was pretty damn valuable. He pulled overtime and didn't get paid; he pulled double shifts when there weren't enough people. He'd thought his days as a first year resident had been hell, but Africa was hardly much better. There was so much need, so much less organization, and Brian had never felt like a minute mattered so much.

But, he was a doctor. Sometimes he felt more like a field medic, but his commitment to patients was still an unavoidable part of his job.

He turned, forcing a smile.

Graham came to a stop, smiling sheepishly. "I know you're a very busy man, Dr. Doyle," he began. "And we truly appreciate the time you've taken to help us out here today."

"Just doing my job," he said.

"Yes, right," Graham said. Then he hesitated. "That is just the thing. Please, make sure you do your job. My friend may not tell you he's in pain, but that doesn't mean he's not feeling it."

"If he wants medication-"

Graham shook his head, waving his hand in the air. "You miss my meaning, Dr. Doyle," he said. "It's not just the pain. In our line of work, full mobility is important. Any kind of compromise can be devastating, if you know what I mean."

Security contractors. Garringer didn't look it, but if he was some kind of enforcer...a hand injury could do him in.

Though, considering what people like Garringer did, that didn't seem so bad. If Garringer couldn't fire a gun properly, it was no skin off Brian's back.

"We're not like most security contractors," Graham said, almost reading Brian's mind. "We protect the right people. And we protect each other. He got this injury on my account; please, don't let him be crippled because of your misconceptions and busy daily schedule."

It would have been easy to blow him off - hell, Brian _wanted _to. But there was something in the way the man talked, something earnest, something wholly _believable._ The son of a bitch _meant _it. That they were there for the right reasons, even if it defied all odds.

And it did defy all odds. No one was here for the right reasons. Not even Brian.

Sighing again, Brian wet his lips. "Yeah," he said. "Don't worry. I'm good at what I do. I'll do everything I can to make sure your friend has a full recovery."

Graham's face lit up. "You have my deepest gratitude," he said. "I mean it."

With that, Graham turned, moving back toward the x-ray room. Brian watched him go, and shook his head. He really needed to learn to say _no_someday.

Not today, however.

Brian checked his watched and cursed, scuttling off to make afternoon rounds.

-o-

It was nearly an hour later before Brian had time to even look for the films. They were there, at least, on the top of the stack, and when Brian put them up to the light, he whistled, shaking his head.

"Why can't I be that lucky," he murmured, pulling down the films and going to check on his patient.

-o-

Garringer was back in the curtain area. His hand had a new bandage, and there was evidence that the nurse had come in to clean out the wound like Brian had requested. Garringer still wasn't on an IV, though, and this time he was lying somewhat placidly on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"We okay in here?" Brian asked, closing the curtain behind him.

"You tell me," Garringer said, rolling his head. "I assume you came in here with news, not just to make pathetic small talk."

Brian rolled his eyes. "It's great news," he said. "I looked at your films and it's remarkable. You managed to miss every single bone in your hand. I mean, obviously there's muscle damage but you've missed the major nerves and tendons. There's literally a one in a million chance of getting shot in the hand and having this little actual damage."

Graham was sitting up, eyeing him expectantly. "So that means...?"

Brian shrugged. "Full recovery, no further medical intervention necessary," he said. "You'll want to keep it clean and wrapped, and I'm going to write you a script for antibiotics just to ward off any potential infection. But really, there's nothing more for me to do for you."

It wasn't often that Brian got to deliver that kind of good news. It was a heady feeling.

Until Garringer scowled at him. "You mean, I let him drag me into this hellhole, sat around for pointless tests, just so you could tell me that I would have been fine at the motel?" He shot a glare toward Graham. "I _told _you."

Graham scoffed. "You were too busy bleeding for me to take you seriously," he said. "Besides, shouldn't you thank the good doctor now?"

"For what? Being useless?"

"For taking the time to ensure that your hand will recover and you will be able to cause destruction and havoc without impediment for the rest of your life," Graham said. "Or at least until you go off and do something else noble and self sacrificial and get yourself injured again."

"Well, if you wouldn't get yourself into tight spots-"

"Oof, so it's my fault?"

"I did get shot defending you!"

"Because you grabbed the gun with your _hand!_"

"I was sort of out of options before he blew your brains out!"

"Maybe I should have let you die from blood loss and infection!"

"It would have been more merciful than _this!_"

Brian stared, mouth open. Finally, he cleared his throat.

The men stopped, Garringer sulking, Graham smiling apologetically. "Hospitals," Graham said. "Stressful places."

"Tell me about it," Brian said. "But, um. I can get your discharge papers together and get you two out of here in just a few minutes."

Graham smiled, as charming as ever, as though he had not just threatened to harm the friend he'd just implored Brian to save. These men were closer than friends. Maybe they were together? Maybe it was just a brothers in arms sort of thing?

Whatever it was, Brian was just glad to clear them out of the curtain area.

"Good," Garringer said.

"We would be most appreciative," Graham agreed.

"Yeah," Brian said. "Just sit tight, and I'll get the paperwork ready."

-o-

It took more than a few minutes, what with the consult he got pulled into, and the fight he had to break up, and the drunk man he had to help tie down to a bed. But when he had the papers, he swung his way back to the curtain area, pulling open the curtain.

But there was no one there. The bed was empty; the chair was vacated.

Poking his head out, he looked for them, wondering if they'd taken a walk or gone to the bathroom. He flagged down their nurse, who had no clue, and Brian went back inside the curtain area.

The extra gauze was gone, but the script for antibiotics was still there. When he went to pick up the chart, he was surprised to find it stripped bare, nothing but a blank clipboard.

They'd skipped out on him.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, thinking about the mess of paperwork he'd have to make up to compensate. About billing and security and-

Brian had a headache already.

Sighing, he tossed the clipboard back on the bed in disgust, walking out of the curtain area, leaving it open and vacant as he got back to his patients.

-o-

Brian didn't have time to dwell on Garringer. There had been a steady upswing in violence lately, and everyone said that the factions were fighting more out in the desert. It was spreading toward the city, catching up the outer neighborhoods. At least ten people in the last three days had died, most of them too mutilated to save.

One of them had been a child.

Garringer and Graham had claimed to be one of the good guys.

But working the extra shifts, changing out of bloodstained scrubs, Brian didn't know if there were any good guys left on the whole damn continent.

-o-

The violence got worse. Some of the better doctors left town, taking their families with them. Rumor had it that a radicalized cell might be trying to take over the city. With the ammunition and power they had, it might just work.

Brian considered going home.

But he wasn't a quitter.

Besides, if he didn't stay, he was starting to wonder if anyone would.

-o-

Brian hadn't been home in three days. The only reason he was going home now was to call his mother so she wouldn't think he was dead.

That sounded a bit melodramatic, but Brian was disconcerted that it wasn't unreasonable. The military had started surrounding the area, checking people at the door way. They'd found a patient still strapped to a live bomb, who'd almost been rolled into Brian's ER.

It freaked him out, really, but Brian wasn't sure how to be freaked out. He wasn't even sure how he was awake as he stumbled out into the parking garage. He needed to go home, to eat, to sleep, to-

He didn't see the movement until someone jerked him back, clamping a hand over his mouth and pulling him into the shadows.

Exhausted as he was, Brian's impulses were still to fight. He thrashed, bucking wildly.

But the figure behind him clamped down, rendering his struggles useless.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the voice hissed, low and hot in his ear. "But I have no objections to knocking you out to make this go a little easier. Do you understand?"

Did he understand? Hell, Brian still barely understood the local dialect, but less why he was being kidnapped out of his parking ramp.

And the implications...

It could be for money. He was white, that could make people think he was rich. Plus, he was a doctor. They had no idea how little he was paid or how much school debt he had at home. And when they did...

It could be political. With the factions fighting, maybe someone was looking for leverage. Maybe he'd have to read badly written scripts about how the American government had to cease and desist, which meant he was going to die...

He was going to die.

The idea of it struck him with a sudden profound novelty. Maybe this was punishment for coming to Africa for all the wrong reasons. Maybe this was a cosmic gotcha for being an over-conceited ass in med school and a backstabbing brown-noser during his residency. Maybe he was going to die.

But Brian didn't want to do. Not in Africa. Not when he hadn't done anything that mattered yet.

He just didn't want to die.

Panicking, he pushed back again, slamming back hard. The body behind him connected with the wall and Brian felt some give and started to fight-

But then the hand wrapped around his throat, and everything went dim until it all just disappeared.

-o-

He woke up to the sound of rumbling. In Brian's foggy mind, he realized he was moving.

Eyes snapping open, he jolted but when he tried to sit up, he found himself tied too tight to move. His hands were laced together, and so were his feet. There was another rope above his knees, cutting so tight into his scrubs that he was worried about his circulation.

Still, it was effective. All he could do was flop like a fish out of water.

Which was fitting, he thought. A fish about to die...

"You should relax," a voice come from the front. The front seat, Brian noted. They were in a car. Some nondescript sedan with a bench back seat. He had to crane his head, trying to see who was speaking. "If you move around too much you'll fall."

Brian swallowed the lump in his throat, and felt his panic rising again. So he had been taken then. He'd been kidnapped. He was being drive to an undisclosed location...

That couldn't be good.

This wasn't good.

Brian flailed.

And fell out of the seat, landing hard, the impact hitting his taut shoulders painfully.

"Told you," said the voice from upfront. "Lucky for you we don't have that much further to go."

Since he was already on the floor, Brian saw no harm in struggling. If he was going to die, he wanted it to be like a man. He wanted to fight. He didn't want this to be any easy for this lunatic than it was for him. "Who are you?" he snarled.

"Give it a minute," the man said. "It'll probably come to you."

That wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. People didn't kidnap in this area of the world to remain anonymous. They did it to make a name for themselves. Where were the grand speeches and the not-so-veiled threats?

And why the hell was this guy an_ American_?

An American.  
_  
It'll probably come to you.  
_  
He recognized the voice. Terse, to the point.

Struggles stilling, he craned his head, doing his best to look up over the seat and catch a glance of plain brown hair. "Mr. Garringer?"

"Good," Garringer replied. "I was starting to worry about oxygen deprivation from choking you out. And I need you in peak physical condition."

Brian's stomach churned, cold fear spreading through his veins. "I thought you were a security contractor."

"I am," came the simple reply.

"Then why are you _kidnapping _me?" Brian insisted.

"It was...necessary," Garringer replied without elaborating.

"What?" Brian asked, incredulous. "I'm not worth anything to anyone. If you think I'm good leverage-"

Garringer made a dismissive noise. "I know that. You're useless."

"I don't have any money," Brian said.

"And I don't want any money," Garringer said.

Brian bucked uselessly. "Then why did you kidnap me?" he exclaimed.

"Just trust me," Garringer said.

Brian fell back against the floor, letting out a pent up breath. He shook his head, eyes wet with tears. "That's sort of asking a lot!"

"I know," Garringer said, and he almost sounded vaguely regretful. "Just trust me when I say I wish there were another way."

"There is," Brian said, trying not to sound too desperate. "We can work something out."

"And we will," Garringer said. "Just..._trust me._"

Trust, Brian thought, blinking back tears as he stared at the ceiling. Trust.

Brian was good at working hard. He was good at pushing boundaries and being the best. He was good at studying and training and diagnosing and treat.

But he wasn't so good at trust.

He didn't trust people to have his back; he didn't trust people to see his value without working his ass of to prove it to them. He didn't trust patients to tell him the truth; he didn't trust any system.

Brian didn't trust.

Especially not psychotic ex-patients who kidnapped him.

He closed his eyes, and swallowed.

Especially not those.

-o-

When they stopped, Brian felt shaky. He was lightheaded, but increasingly certain. Garringer was clearly insane. Brian wasn't sure how he'd missed such an obvious lack of mental coherency during his exam - maybe he was getting sloppy - because Garringer should be put away for the good of society. The man was unhinged. And definitely not to be trusted.

Which mean, Brian had to run.

Brian wasn't one to quit, but he also wasn't some blind idealist willing to die for any cause. He'd always laughed at the idiots who tied themselves to trees or who stood in front of bulldozers. Being a doctor had made one thing clear: causes were okay for the living, the made no difference to the dead.

Brian wasn't going to stay. Not to see if Garringer needed help for an apparent psychotic break; not to see if Garringer needed anything at all. Brian was going to run because he may have accidentally come to Africa to be a doctor, but he damn well didn't come here to die.

He'd been good at track in high school, and he could sprint. Even if he couldn't, Brian had to find an opening and just go. He didn't know where this was headed, but he was certain he didn't want to find out.

The back door opened, and Garringer hoisted him up, placing in on the seat. He pulled out a knife, and Brian flinched, heart fluttering and steeling himself-

But Garringer rolled his eyes and slit the rope at his knees, then the one at his legs.

Then he stopped, looking Brian clearly in the face. "We are going to get out of the car now," he said. "We are going to walk to a building not far from here. There is nothing in either direction for miles. I can run faster than you. So don't be stupid."

Brian blinked, his chest tight.

Garringer eyed him carefully. "Do you understand?"

Brian didn't understand anything at this point.

Garringer shook his head in apparent distrust. He put the knife away, and Brian caught sight of the gun at his hip. He didn't resist when Garringer pulled him to his feet, turning him slightly until he was pointed toward a building, just as he'd been told.

"We are going inside now," Garringer said.

Brian's stomach fluttered. They were too far out. They were too alone. Garringer was armed. Brian had been abducted. If someone buried a body here, it might never be found.

Brian might never be found.

He shook his head.

"Yes," Garringer said, shoving him forward a step.

Brian tripped and stumbled, almost choking as tears burned his eyes. "There's nothing to gain from this," he said, too aware of how his voice wavered.

"I'm not looking to gain anything," Garringer grunted, shoving Brian another step.

He tripped again, almost falling, but Garringer pulled him upright. Brian shook his head, desperate. He'd planned to fight, to run, to do something, but he was paralyzed.

And scared.

He was terrified. "Please," he said, voice cracking. "I don't have any sides in any of this. I'm just doing my job."

"I know," Garringer said, pushing him farther. "And so am I. This isn't personal."

This wasn't personal.

As if that somehow made it better.

As if anything made it better.

They were almost there now, and Brian's legs threatened to fold up entirely. His cheeks were wet, and he shook his head, even as Garringer hauled him upright. "Please," he said. "I don't know why you're doing this, but_ please._"

"Oh for pete's sake!" Garringer snapped. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

Brian inhaled ragged. "But-"

"But shut up and don't sob," Garringer said, opening the doorway roughly. "I need you in top form."

Confused, Brian frowned. "For what?" he asked. "I don't understand-"

And then he was shoved inside.

The room was simple and plain. The building was nothing more than a shack, poorly equipped with a small kitchenette and a few sparse furnishings. A table, two chairs. A sink and desk.

And a bed.

And on the bed, Graham, looking like he was already dead.

-o-

Brian was a doctor. He was trained in emergency medicine. He'd attended a top tier medical school; he'd worked on his residency at one of the best hospital in the country. He'd been at the top of his class. All his teachers and attendings had praised him, spoken highly of his ability to think on his feet, to respond fast, to do the right thing without hesitation, no matter the situation.

That was what being an ER doctor was about, in a lot of ways. You had to take what came through the door and do your best with it. You were literally starting from scratch.

And Brian had always been good at that. His first day as a med student, he'd pulled on a pair of gloves and jumped in while his fellow students were hemming and hawing and losing their lunch. He'd never seen a case he couldn't handle; he'd never blanched. Patients with their intestines hanging out, bones sticking through skin, pieces of metal impaled through skulls - Brian had seen it, dealt with it, treated it.

But standing there, staring at Graham, Brian was frozen.

Dumbstruck. Gaping like a simpleton.

Because he'd thought he was going to die; he'd thought that Garringer had dragged him out here for some sick, sadistic purpose; that he was going to maim him, cut his body into pieces and leave his head out in the open for the scavengers to pick apart his brain, piece by piece...

Garringer wasn't even standing next to him now. There was no threat of violence anymore. Instead, Garringer had moved forward, leaning over Graham's bed and shaking him - gently. "Hey," he said. "I need you to wake up. Hey."

On the bed, Graham stirred, nullifying Brian's earlier suspicion that the man may actually be dead. But the dazed, bleary-eyed look wasn't exactly reassuring. "Hmmm?" Graham asked, the sounds slurring from an obvious fever.

"I got the doctor," Garringer said. "Just like I promised."

Graham blinked a few more times, eyes clearing a little. His complexion was pasty, hair sweaty even as he shivered under the lone blanket on the bed. His expression was earnest. "He came? No questions asked?"

Garringer's face was taut as he cast a glance toward Brian, still standing unmoving in the doorway. "I told you," he said, turning his eyes back to Graham. "He's a doctor. This is what they do."

Graham smiled, eyes starting to flutter shut again.

"Hey," Garringer said, shaking him a bit. "_Hey._"

But Graham didn't respond, his lips parting a little as his breathing deepened just slightly as he lapsed back into obvious unconsciousness.

Garringer worked his jaw, then looked again at Brian. His eyes were brighter than before, almost on fire. But it wasn't just insanity; it was fear.

Garringer was terrified.

"Well," Garringer snapped. "Are you going to make me a liar or come over here and help?"

Brian blinked, and remember the he was, in fact, here. He'd been kidnapped, taken against his will, dragged to the middle of nowhere...to treat a patient. A very sick patient, if his first glance diagnosing skills were still worth anything.

There were questions, now. About how long Graham had been like this, about what other symptoms he had, about why the hell Garringer just didn't_tell _him.

About why Garringer hadn't done the_ smart _thing and taken Graham to the hospital and not committed a felony.

"Please," Garringer added finally, voice wavering just a little. "You're all we've got."

The door was right behind him; there was nothing holding him back.

Except...

Brian was a doctor. Trained, skilled, capable...

And now he had a patient.

-o-

The escape plan forgotten, Brian fell back into all the routines he'd mastered as a doctor. No matter which hospital, no matter what continent, first he had to assess the patient.

Even when he'd just been kidnapped against his will and driven to the middle of nowhere.

The patient.

He crossed the floor in a few long strides, kneeling down, nudging Garringer out of the way while he reached toward Graham. "How long has he been like this?"

Like this: feverish, agitated, pale, weak. His skin was milky, making his stubble stand out. His eyes were closed, face tensing intermittently with pain, lanky body listless on the bed. A far cry from the vibrant, verbose man Brian had met in the hospital just last week.

"He had a mild case of the flu about four days ago," Garringer reported. "He seemed to get over it quickly."

Brian frowned, pressing his fingers against the throbbing vein on Graham's neck. The beats were fast and fluttering, well above normal. "The flu?" Brian asked. "Like, the stomach flu?"

"A little," Garringer said. "Had a little fever and couldn't keep much down. He got achy and sore, but he was still his usually pain in the ass self. Then, yesterday, it came back - only worse."

Worse: bed-ridden, compromised lucidity, generalized malaise.

Brian felt for the lymph nodes, noting that there seemed to be nothing unusual, then moved his hand up to feel Graham's brow.

And winced.

Under his touch, Graham stirred, blinking lazily up at him. "Ah, the good doctor," he murmured, smiling weakly.

The fact that Graham recognized him was a good sign, but Brian was too busy noticing the most telling and unsettling symptom to feel reassured. Because while there was awareness in Graham's too-bright blue eyes, there was also blood.

Brian forced a smile: his bedside manner was one of the things he'd had to school himself on repeatedly. Never let the patient see how scared you were; never give them any reason to doubt. "I don't normally make house calls," he said, as friendly as he could manage given the circumstances. He glanced toward Garringer, who was standing anxious behind him. He smiled back at Graham. "But your friend here was quite convincing."

"I do apologize for whatever means he employed to bring you here," Graham said. "I'm afraid he's not exactly-" He broke off, shifting on the bed with a grimace. "-diplomatic about such things."

That was an understatement. Brian snorted. "Yeah, well, I'll add the extra inconvenience to your bill," he said. "Which you both skipped out on last time, by the way."

"Did we?" Graham asked. A brief smile lit over his face. "Don't really remember."

That was a lie. Probably one of many lies. Hell, these two men were entirely sketchy what with blowing out AMA and kidnapping doctors. And what were they doing this far out? Alone? Where was their company?

Those issues, while pressing on Brian's mind, were not relevant toward diagnosis.

His primary concern had to be diagnosis.

"I'm sure," he said. "Now, Graham, I'm going to look you over here and see what's going on, okay?"

Graham nodded, eyes drifting closed again as he hummed in tacit agreement.

With the blood in the eyes, that was suggestive of something hemorrhagic, which really did narrow it down quite a bit. Fevers and nausea could be caused by any number of things - some of which were serious, some of which were not - but bleeding orifices were somewhat less expected and definitely more cause for concern.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keys, turning on the penlight on his keychain. Getting low, he shone it up Graham's nose. Then, he rolled Graham's head to the side, flashing the light into one of the ears.

The ears were clear; the nose wasn't. When he opened Graham's mouth, there were red stains around his teeth.

Swallowing carefully, he looked up to Garringer. "And when did he start bleeding?"

Garringer was stark white. "About ten minutes before I went to get you," he said humorlessly. "He threw up - it wasn't pretty."

Brian knew it probably wasn't. Blood-tinged bile was always unsettling, even to a trained medical professional. Because there were certain implications. Internal bleeding - perhaps, though that didn't seem likely considering the blood in the nose and eyes.

"Has he had any accidents lately?" Brian asked anyway. "Any sort of impact injury?"

"No," Garringer said.

Brian nodded. "And he didn't eat anything unusual? Come into contact with any possible poisons?"

"We're in Africa; everything we eat here is unusual," Garringer said.

Brian gave him a look.

Garringer sighed. "No," he said. "At least nothing that we both haven't eaten and been in contact with."

Which meant it was likely a virus. Viral diseases were highly contagious and could produce all the symptoms Graham was exhibiting. There was also very little to do to combat a virus since typical treatments such as antibiotics were essentially wholly ineffective.

He looked at Graham. Fever, bleeding, vomit, listlessness. Given the symptoms and the common diseases of the area...

"You know what it is," Garringer concluded.

Brian glanced up at him. "Yeah," he admitted. "I think so."

"So?" Garringer said. "Do something."

Brian grunted. "There's nothing I_ can _do," he said. "He's got yellow fever and you kidnapped me without letting me grab any supplies."

"Right, and if I'd let you do that, you would have had me arrested," Garringer snapped.

"Well, you kidnapped me!" Brian said, his ire rising.

"Because he's sick," Garringer said, gesturing to Graham.

"Yeah. So you take him to the doctor," Brian hissed. "Which is where he belongs."

"That's not exactly possible," Garringer gritted out.

"He brought you in," Brian pointed out.

"Yeah, and that was enough of a risk," Garringer said.

Brian shook his head. "I really don't understand what the hell is going on here," he said. "Your friend needs medical help. I'm a doctor without supplies in the middle of nowhere. I can tell you what's wrong with him, but there's not much I can do to help him."

Garringer's face went blank. "You have to help him."

Brian let out an exasperated breath. "I will," he said, getting back to his feet. "Look, let's just go to the hospital-"

Garringer got up, looking him straight in the eyes. "No."

"I'm not going to press charges, even though I think you're a psychotic menace to society-"

Garringer got in his way. "_No._"

Brian sighed. "You're willing to commit a felony to save him but you won't take him to a hospital?"

"I would take him to a hospital," Garringer said, slowly, each word enunciated. "But you know how your hospital has become rather popular lately?"

Brian frowned.

"With less than savory types?"

Brian shook his head. "Yeah, but-"

"Yeah, but those men are dangerous terrorists who have done bad things to good people," Garringer said. "They are a danger to society and should be snuffed out of existence. Since you people believe foolishly in helping all people despite their crimes, the hospital is not exactly safe for those of us who intend on combating their ways. I understand that he's sick. I understand that he's very sick. But you need to understand that if we set foot into that hospital, we'll both probably be dead, and I think that's something we'd both rather avoid. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to stop talking and start helping him. _Now._"

The tirade was so long, each word said with a subtle yet pressing vehemence. It was the most he'd heard Garringer say, probably more words than he'd offered during his entire stay in the hospital. And whereas most of the time Garringer had seemed grumpy and indifferent, there was real concern.

Real anger.

It was still entirely possibly that Garringer was crazy. It was possible he was a bad man doing bad things. But he'd brought Brian here to save Graham's life because he believed sincerely that it was the only way possible to help.

Right or wrong.

Brian's shoulders fell, his defiance diminishing. "This is yellow fever," he said, more quietly now. "There is no cure, but the hospital will have things that can help him. He's in what's known as the toxic phase. It's going to take a toll on his liver and send his fever through the roof. He needs to be on saline, maybe have supplemental oxygen. Those are things we can give him at the hospital to make sure he has the best odds of fighting through this. Even a clinic-"

Garringer snapped, pushing closer into Brian's face with a growl. "-is too dangerous!" he growled.

"And if you do nothing, the toxic phase can have a death rate of about 20 percent," Brian said back. "Maybe up to 50 percent if he's got a serious case."

Garringer took several breaths, harsh and fast through his nose. He gritted his teeth together, eyes boring into Brian uncompromisingly. "Then tell me what we need."

Brian felt himself relax. "We need a hospital-"

Garringer shook his head. "No, tell me what we need to treat him here," he said curtly.

Brian furrowed his brow.

Garringer rolled his eyes. "I stole a damn doctor," he said. "If you think I'm going to have second thoughts about stealing a little saline and an oxygen canister, then you're dumber than you look."

Brian made a face. "You can't go steal it-"

"And you can't let him die," Garringer snapped. "Besides. Most of those supplies are going to terrorists right now. Trust me when I say that this is a much better cause."

A better cause.

Brian had never believed much in causes. Brian had never believed in much of anything except dealing with what was in front of him.

Right now, that was a man with a bad case of yellow fever.

And a psychopath bent on saving his life in the most inconvenient means possible.

The fact was, Brian hadn't intended on much of anything that was happening to him right now. From being kidnapped, to being in Africa at all. If he couldn't control the situation, he could at least save the patient.

His eyes went to Graham, who hadn't stirred again on the bed.

"Now," Garringer said, clearly sensing his victory. "Tell me what we need."

-o-

Brian's fingers were numb, despite the heat, as he scrawled the list of supplies. He was as specific as he could be and he asked for more than he hoped he'd need, given how far out they were and Garringer's general disposition, he also didn't want to take any chances.

Garringer looked at the list. "An AED?" he asked. He looked up.

Brian shrugged. "Last resort."

Garringer worked his jaw. Then he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "Okay."

Brian blinked at him. "Okay? You really think you're going to find an AED?"

"I don't think," he said, moving toward the door. "I know. I'll be as fast as I can but it may be a while."

He paused at the door, turning back. His eyes went to Graham for a long moment before fixing on Brian. "You will be here when I get back."

Brian swallowed reflexively.

"Because if you're not, I will find you, and I will hold you personally responsible for anything else that happens to you."

Brian suppressed a shudder. "Threats aren't the best way to convince me to help."

"No," Garringer said. "But I trust that you really are a doctor. You may hate me, but Graham has nothing to do with that. He doesn't deserve to die."

With that, Garringer left. He sought no confirmation.

Then again, he didn't need one. He was right, after all. Graham was sick; even while there was little Brian could do, he had a medical obligation to do what little there was. He could tend the fever, monitor vitals, attempt to administer fluids. Anything to give Graham a fighting chance and improve his odds.

Anything to keep him alive.

Sighing, Brian moved back across the room, scraping one of the chairs across the floor and settling it next to Graham's bed. The man moaned a little, fretting as Brian took his pulse again, noting the fresh blood at the base of his nose.

If he failed, Brian reflected numbly, it was quite possible that Graham wouldn't be the only one who died.

-o-

A normal day in the ER was busy. Some days more than others, but when he wasn't in an emergency, there were still the usual cuts to stitch and broken limbs to x-ray. Even when things weren't exciting, they were still busy to the point that Brian usually had to wait hours to use the bathroom and eat his lunch over charts in the breakroom.

This, despite its terrifying start, was almost boring by contrast.

The diagnosis had been easy, and there was no further course of treatment to offer for the time being. He checked Graham's vitals every fifteen minutes, using a damp washcloth to attempt combating the fever. He offered Graham water periodically, rousing the other man enough so it didn't all trickle down his chin, and then he was consigned to sit and wait.

Graham slept for the first half hour, heavy and without twitching. But when Brian roused him for another routine check, the man started to mumble.

"Hey," Brian said, adjusting the washcloth awkwardly. "Just take it easy."

Graham moaned again, tossing his head to the side and bucking his body with a whimper.

"You're okay," Brian said, and it wasn't entirely true, but it was mostly true. "You just have to hold on a bit."

The words of comfort were weird and leaden, but comfort wasn't really Brian's thing. He was a doctor. He treated. He didn't sit by bedsides and offer reassurances. He hardly had time to take a proper history most days.

Graham flailed this time, thrashing in earnest now, shaking his head as his eyes squeezed shut. Tears trickled down his face, stained red with blood.

Brian reminded himself that was expected. A typical symptom-

Then Graham jolted, his entire body arching up with a gag. Brian was dumbstruck before he realized what was happening.

Graham gagged again, and Brian fumbled, rolling the man's body to his side, and holding him there, one hand firmly on his shoulder while his body convulsed and the bile finally came out.

It was thin and mostly watery, but the telling black streaks confirmed Brian's diagnosis.

Graham retched again, a desperate and painful sound as his body worked to expel it. Each convulsion brought up less than the last, until Graham could only dry heave, mouth stained red as he sagged, exhausted to the bed, body trembling as he lapsed back into sleep.

Brian stood there for a moment, and he was trembling too. The floor was dirty, and Graham was spent. It wasn't the worst Brian had seen - not by a long shot - but there was something unsettling about it. He'd had patients die before and he'd called time of death more than he wanted to remember. But he'd always been in the hospital, where there were machines and procedures, nurses and janitorial crews. It wasn't personal; it wasn't a mess he had a clean up.

This was personal. The minute Garringer had dragged him out of the parking garage.

The minute Brian had decided to stay.

It was suddenly far too personal.

-o-

Then, the rambling started.

About fifteen minutes passed after Graham threw up, and Brian had taken to mopping up the floor as best he could, throwing the soiled rags outside and washing himself thoroughly afterward. As he was scalding his hands with hot water and scrubbing them with soap, he heard Graham on the bed again.

At first, he worried it was another episode of vomit. But when he made it back to the other man's side, he realized that wasn't the case.

No, this time, Graham was looking at him. His eyes were fever bright, but they locked on Brian's with a pressing intensity, even as he writhed on the bed, helplessly caught in the throes of the fever.

"'s hot," he mumbled, tossing fitfully. "Too hot."

Brian settled awkwardly, picking up the tepid washcloth to replace it on Graham's forehead. "That's just the fever," he explained. "It's just cycling through, maybe a little higher each time, but the worst of this one should pass."

Of course, it would probably only be followed by another, more ferocious wave, but Brian knew better than to tell a sick patient that things were going to get worse. Such things weren't so much lies as they were optimistic versions of the truth. The power of positive thinking was well documented in countless medical studies.

Not that it seemed to be doing Graham much good.

He blinked, shaking his head, even as he strained. "Casey - Casey should be here-" he said, almost trying to lever himself up.

"Hey," Brian said, reaching out to press the man back down. "I don't know who Casey is, but your friend's going to be back soon."

Brian could hope. He didn't know how far out they really were - he'd been out of it for the first part of the drive - and the list of supplies Brian had requested...

It could take a while.

Brian watched as Graham shuddered violently, shaking his head in futile protest. "Casey - the _mission,_" he said, almost moaning it now as his tremors increased. He inhaled sharply, almost gasping in pain as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I promised Casey I could wait until the _mission._"

Altered consciousness. Possible hallucinations.

Patients said some of the most crazy-ass things when they were compromised by pain and fever. Which meant that Graham's was peaking well over 104, probably closer to 105. He mentally tallied how long he'd been like this. The toxic phase didn't last indefinitely, but Brian was keenly aware that they probably weren't done with it yet.

They probably hadn't even got to the worst of it.

Graham sobbed as he flailed. "Please, Casey," he begged. "Michael and Rick - we're the only backup they have. The _mission._"

Sometimes patients talked nonsense. Sometimes they made up imaginary friends from the planet Rumba or pet monsters with three horns and a tail. Sometimes they had illicit affairs with their best friend's wife and sometimes they were martyrs for an unknown but ever-pressing cause.

It was entirely possible, then, that Graham was speaking gibberish. But there was something so earnest, so _desperate, _that it gave Brian pause.

Fevers could also strip away one's self defense mechanisms, leave a person raw and vulnerable. Garringer showed all signs of being a psychopath; Graham's friend acquaintance, therefore, was suspect. If they weren't lovers - which would really be the easiest explanation, but Brian didn't think he'd be so lucky any more - then they_ were _brothers in arms.

Security contractors, though. They had jobs. Gigs.

Maybe missions.

But who was Casey? Michael and Rick?

And really, a mission?

Was this why Garringer couldn't bring Graham to the hospital? Who _were _these men?

The good guys? Who captured doctors and left their friends to possibly die and stealing medical supplies?

Graham breathed rapidly, twitching now. "Casey, your hand - your _hand,_" he said. "I'm not worth your career. Casey-"

The name broke on a desperate, pitching plea, and as the sob shook Graham, this time he didn't stop.

At all.

Brian recognized it the instant it happened. The trembling became a twitch, starting in his right arm before moving to his left and taking over his entire body.

A seizure.

Swearing, Brian was on his feet, rolling Graham to his side, and holding him gently in place while he twitched. The spasms shook him, his limbs flailing, his head bouncing. At the hospital, he could have monitored pulse and respirations, made sure it showed signs of slowing. He could order anti-seizure medications, having them ready in case he couldn't pull out of this on his own.

He hadn't even put those damn meds on his list.

Which meant, he could only stand and wait.

Wait for the seizing to stop; wait for Garringer to get back.

Wait for this whole damn thing to make sense.

-o-

As a doctor, Brian didn't get emotionally involved with patients. It was called professional distance, and it was a necessary skill in order to thrive as a doctor. He'd seen the other students in med school, the ones who got attached, and they'd never made it past the first year. They couldn't. Because when a patient died, part of them died, too. After a few patients, there just wasn't enough left of them to keep going.

Brian had never particularly had that problem. Yes, it felt bad to watch people die, but he'd managed to objectify them from the beginning. They were _patients,_ not people. They existed in the confines of a hospital bed and everything he needed to know about them was listed on their chart.

That wasn't to say that he didn't show compassion. Doctors had to have compassion. But when they walked out of the room, put the chart on the door, that was really the end of it. Next patient, next diagnosis, next treatment.

He didn't have that luxury here.

In fact, Brian didn't have any luxuries. He didn't have equipment or a crash cart nearby; he didn't have nurses and fellow doctors and attendings.

It was just Brian.

And a very sick man.

In his mind, Brian went over the diagnosis again. Yellow fever was a given, especially now that Graham's complexion had taken on a yellow hue - jaundice. It was starting to affect his liver.

The seizure was a bad sign, though. Even in the toxic phase, most people survived. But the severe cases...

With seizures and black vomit and kidney failure and liver damage...

Those cases could kill over half the time.

Which meant that Garringer had dragged him out here to quite possibly watch his friend die.

Which meant, quite possibly, that Garringer would kill him. The man had kidnapped him and gone to steal medical supplies. If Graham didn't live...

Brian swallowed, feeling numb. He dropped his head in his hands.

He could leave. He should leave. Get to a road, find a ride back to town. Talk to the police, get help. And if they were too busy with the terrorists, then just get the hell out. Out of the hospital, out of town, out of Africa. Hell, out of_ medicine._

On the bed, Graham moaned. He shifted slightly but didn't stir. Truthfully, Brian didn't expect him to. After a seizure, the body needed time to recover. And in severe cases of yellow fever, coma was usually the next symptom on the list.

Brian sighed, watching Graham as he slept. Just a week ago, he'd been fine. Awake and alive, talking and cracking jokes. He'd surprised Brian with his concern, and even in his delirium, he'd only talked about other people - about the_ mission._

Suddenly, they didn't seem like security contractors at all. But_ what _they were, Brian still wasn't sure. Private hit men? Spies?

It was like some cheap thriller novel, the kind Brian had always been too busy to read.

Not too busy to live, though. Apparently.

He reached out, checking Graham's pulse and respiration. The fever was still high, but it had slackened just slightly, probably waiting for another cycle. His heart rate was light and fast, skipping tenuously beneath Brian's fingers. It wasn't good, but it was relatively stable for the moment.

Brian should run, but the idea of leaving Graham like this...it didn't seem fair. Even the idea of leaving Graham like this for Garringer to find didn't seem fair.

Of course, being kidnapped didn't seem fair either, but...

But Graham had stayed with Garringer; Garringer had stolen a doctor for Graham. They were both willing to risk everything, and this wasn't a cause that Brian was really a part of, and yet, it was one he couldn't quite shirk. Because somewhere between mopping up vomit and holding the man through a seizure, Brian had become personally involved. Somewhere between being kidnapped and being asked to help no matter what, Brian had become_ invested. _If he ran now...

Well, he'd never forgive himself.

That wasn't logical. It was probably some warped form of Stockholm's syndrome. Or maybe it was just part of_ really _being a doctor. When suffering was presented, Brian needed to fix it. Not just to move a chart, but to help the person.

The _person._

Funny that he should think that now, with the two people he couldn't possibly know less about.

But Brian had to stay. He'd come to Africa and he was sticking it out. He'd stick this out, too.

And hope like hell Graham survived - because Brian's life might depend on it, too.

-o-

When Garringer finally came back, Brian had started to rethink his decision to stay. Graham had had another fit of fever - shaking and trembling - but when it had subsided, the man had gone so terrifyingly still, that Brian had feared it would be too late for all of them.

Garringer made no attempt at stealth, kicking up the door and trundling in with an arm full of supplies. He grunted, straining as he carried his load over the table, where he unceremoniously set them down.

Brian was on his feet, moving to help, trying to protect the vials of medicine in a plastic bag as Garringer set them roughly on the table.

"There," Garringer said, straightening up again. "I think you'll find that everything is there."

Medicine in hand, Brian looked over the bounty - and gaped.

It was everything. Medicine, IV supplies, the thermometer - even the AED.

"But how-?"

"It doesn't matter," Garringer said. "You said you needed this stuff, so I got it. Now use it."

The order was plaintive.

Brian looked at the stuff again.

Then he looked at Graham.

His stomach twisted, and his eyes went back to Graham.

Garringer moved past him, back toward the bed. "How is he?"

That was a question this time. Not quite vulnerable, but still earnest.

Brian never liked to deliver bad news, but he'd never let himself get worked up about it. If he let the truth of a diagnosis affect him, it would never be relayed well to the patient or their family. In this, professional distance was not only a personal survival mechanism, but the best way to afford patients premier care.

And none of that mattered in this case.

Because if Graham was bad - if he was dying - that wasn't an answer Garringer was willing to hear.

And this time, it wasn't an answer Brian was willing to give.

Instead, he gathered his resolve, picking through the equipment with what he needed. "We'll see after we set up this IV," he said, skirting around Garringer and settling next to Graham. He laid out the equipment, lifting Graham's arm and checking the veins on the crook of his arm. He glanced back. "Can you give me a hand?"

Garringer hesitated, looking at Brian skeptically.

"Or you could just stand there while I try to save his life," Brian said in exasperation.

Garringer's disposition shifted and he moved forward. "Fine," he said. "Let's do this, then."

And for the first time since meeting Garringer, Brian agreed with him.

He just hoped it would be enough - for all their sakes.

-o-

Garringer was terrifying and difficult and seemingly amoral, but he was a hard worker and a quick learner, which Brian appreciated. Without a nurse on hand, Garringer was actually a pretty apt substitute, seeming to know more than the average lay person should. There was probably something to that, and given the ambiguous line of work he was in, maybe it came with the territory, but Brian wasn't exactly about to ask.

While many of these traits were not in Garringer's favor, his ability to work in silence actually suited Brian just fine. The man was still too tense and more than a little abrasive, but he was perfectly content to work without commentary, and he asked Brian no unnecessary questions. Brian was thankful for that much.

Well, as thankful as he could be to the man who kidnapped him.

Still, the further along in this they got, the more Brian saw fear behind the anger. It hadn't just been psychotic tendencies that had pushed the man to kidnap him; it had been honest fear that something might happen to Graham. Not everyone expressed fear the same way. Brian had seen patients curl up and cry; he'd seen some worry themselves into an early grave. He'd seen some laugh like nothing had happened and some come alive with so much vitality that the fear seemed positively surreal.

And now, he'd apparently seen fear channeled into rage. It wasn't exactly a method Brian would recommend, but it had been effective so far.

Together, they'd set up the IV, starting a saline drip to try to replenish Graham's loss of fluids. Not that he was unresponsive, Brian had been unable to get the man to drink, and if they wanted to stave off any worse kidney damage, they needed to keep his fluids up.

The AED was there for emergency purposes, but hooking up the electrodes also gave Brian a way to check Graham's heart rate and blood pressure - neither of which were good. With the thermometer, he was able to quantify Graham's fever, though he kept the number to himself. It was high enough to be a problem; sometimes the numbers were not in the patient's best interests.

And given that Garringer expressed fear through physical violence, Brian figured a little discretion might benefit all of them.

With all that, Garringer still looked like he was ready to snap. After helping Brian with his every request, he'd settled himself against the wall at the foot of Graham's bed, head turned toward the other man, staring almost unblinkingly at his prone form.

Brian sat next to the bed, checking his watched and checking Graham in equal turns. The silence was uncomfortable and tense, and Brian felt himself going more than a little stir crazy between Graham's bouts with the fever, each one leaving him more spent than the last.

"How long will this last?" Garringer demanded.

Brian took a deep breath, shrugging. "The toxic phase may last a few days in bad cases."

"And this is a bad case," Garringer concluded.

Brian made a face. "It's hard to say."

"No, it's not," Garringer replied. "He's got a bad case. I may not be a doctor, but your fancy medical school training isn't worth much if you can't make a simple diagnosis that anyone off the street can see."

Brian's face flushed. "Okay, yeah," he said. "It's a bad case."

Garringer took the news with a drawn face and a sullen nod, eyes still fixed on Graham. "You said fifty percent, right?"

Brian's stomach churned. "The odds are different-"

Garringer looked at him, eyes flashing and face hard.

Brian cut off, sighing. "Yeah," he said. "Fifty percent in the worst cases."

Nodding, Garringer looked at Graham again. "He's good at beating the odds," he said. "We've got that in our favor, anyway. He's too much of an annoying son of a bitch to actually die."

Brian's gaze drifted to Graham. Normally, such sentimentality was easy to write off, but in Graham's case, he wondered if Garringer had a point.

Not that Brian even knew what the point was. He didn't know who these men were. Garringer had been shot through the hand, and they'd blown out of the hospital before billing even had a chance to go through. Then Garringer had kidnapped him to treat a case of yellow fever, citing angry terrorists as a reason to stay away. Not that Brian liked angry terrorists as a general rule, but what did that really mean?

What did any of this really mean?

Normally, Brian wouldn't care. But normally, Brian would be at the hospital, going through his rounds and letting the nurses make the small talk. If this was personal, then it was personal, and at the very least, Garringer wouldn't kill him while Graham was still suffering.

So Brian decided to try his luck. He hadn't made it this far in his career by being timid, and he'd been cowed enough in this experience.

Gathering a breath, he blurted his conclusion. "You're not security contractors."

Brian wasn't sure what he'd expected. Surprise, denial, outrage: something. The banal look of indifference was certainly not among them.

"You think?" Garringer asked dryly.

Brian furrowed his brow, feeling somewhat vexed by the nonchalance. "I do," he said, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. "So I want to know who you are."

He hadn't actually quite meant to say it like that, almost a demand, but there it was. He wanted to know.

Garringer lifted his eyebrows critically. "What makes you think I have any interest in telling you."

With another steadying breath, Brian held his ground. "You kidnapped me out of a parking garage and are making me stay here to treat him. I have a right to know."

"I was gone for over an hour," Garringer pointed out. "If you wanted to leave, you could have."

Brian shook his head, refusing to accept that. "I want to know who you are and why I'm here and not treating you back at the hospital."

Garringer looked annoyed now. "I told you-"

"No, you didn't," he said. "You just said you were the good guys."

"You need more detail than that?" Garringer asked. "This area has been terrorized - literally. We're helping make that go away - at least a little bit. The details don't matter. At least, not to you."

Brian swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat. His resolve faltered, and he looked over at Graham again. "The details might matter to him, though," he said, nodding toward the recumbent Scotsman. He looked back at Garringer, garnering his courage. "You already know he's not doing well. He needs a hospital."

Garringer's face darkened. "We've been over this-"

"Yeah, we have," Brian interjected more forcefully now. "We've been over how he might have a fifty-fifty chance at best. I'm doing what I can. But it may not be enough."

The muscles twitched in Garringer's jaw. "And a hospital is going to change that? You said it yourself, there is no cure."

It was a risky game, using the life of a patient as a bargaining chip. It was, however, the only leverage Brian had - both for the patient, and for himself. He nodded steadily. "It might," he said, unwavering now. "Look, right now he's probably suffering from partial and liver failure. See his color? It's yellow, which is a sign that it's already affecting his liver. And for the entire time I've been here, he hasn't produced any urine that we've seen."

Garringer's expression went dangerously still.

Brian took another breath and pushed on. "If it gets much worse, he'll be in actual kidney failure. That'll kill him, but we can delay the effect at the hospital with dialysis, which can buy him the time he needs to fight off the rest of the infection. If we don't, if his kidneys fail - then every other organ group is going to followed, starting with his liver and his lungs and finally his heart. Is that what you want?"

It was harsher than he intended, and under any other circumstances, he wouldn't resort to outright emotional manipulation. To be fair, though, Garringer had choked him out and thrown him bound into a car. So a little emotionally manipulation wasn't so bad.

Especially since Brian was right.

Garringer was so stiff, it looked like he might break. "Is he in kidney failure now?" he asked, slowly and purposefully.

At that, Brian faltered, looking over at Graham again. He was still comatose, face flushed and tinged with yellow even as sweat soaked his brow, leaving his hair matted on his head. "I'd have to run some blood work-"

"Best guess," Garringer said.

"No," Brian answered. He could manipulate, but he couldn't lie. Not about that. "Not yet. But I don't know how long he has."

"Well, if we need to make that decision, we will," Garringer told him. "But only when it's necessary."

"Oh, it's _we _now?" Brian asked cuttingly. "Or do you mean you? You've already kept me here against my will - and now you'll keep him here, too?"

That one hit - probably a little below the belt. Garringer's eyes flashed, and there was a moment of pure rage, stronger than anything Brian had ever seen before in his life. "Do not think for a moment that this was_ my _choice," he said, the words almost dripping with venom, each so carefully pronounced that they were practically daggers. He gestured toward Graham. "I chose nothing about _this._"

"Except to keep him here," Brian said, almost pleading now. "We can change that."

"In your mind, we can. In your mind, this is very simple. Sickness, cure. Problem, solution," Garringer said. "But in our world, it's _not _that simple. I have to make my choices; _Graham _has made his choices. We've made them to the best of our ability even when they are not in our own personal interest. If it was easy to take him to a hospital, I would. The fact is, it's not. That's why you're here. That's why I'm putting every hope _Graham _has on you."

The weight of that almost made Brian flinch. "When you were shot, he brought you in," he said. "Graham made sure you had the best care possible."

"I know," Garringer snarled. "Life isn't fair like that. We still make our stands on the things that matter."

"Even if it costs Graham his life?"

"Especially then," Garringer snapped. "I don't intend on discussing this any more than I have. The fact that I've let you continue this conversation is because I need you conscious in order to treat him. Just know that these are decisions I've made. I did not make them lightly, but they are still decisions I have to stand by. No matter what."

No matter what. It was that simple.

Except it wasn't simple at all.

Because Brian still didn't know who the hell these men were or if he could do anything to stop a severe case of yellow fever without real medical support. He didn't know if Garringer would kill him if this went wrong; he didn't know if these guys were actually good or not. He didn't know if anyone had reported him missing, if the hospital was still overrun.

He didn't know if Graham would survive the night.

Brian didn't know.

But with Garringer staring him down, and Graham limp on the bed, he would probably have to find out. Garringer was all about choices. The problem was, that Brian didn't have any.

"I think you're making a mistake," Brian said finally, his voice sounded quiet and hoarse.

"Noted," Garringer said. "Now tell me, how's he doing?"

-o-

Graham was not doing well. At the latest check, his fever was even higher, and within another hour, he was fighting another episode of chills. The tremors were severe, but not quite another seizure, and they seemed to rouse Graham somewhat out of his comatose state.

This wasn't exactly good news, though. Sure, it was a positive sign that the infection hadn't affected his systems so badly as to warrant a total shutdown of his body, but with semi-consciousness came a painful restlessness. Even if Graham might not remember, it wasn't easy on Garringer.

Garringer didn't waver, though. He sat next to Graham, changing the washcloth and holding a bucket to catch the black bile that dripped from Graham's lips. He blotted away the blood from his nose, neatly cleaning the bloodstained tracks of tears from his face.

Graham cried out; he pleaded and he begged.

And Garringer stood firm.

It was a decision he'd made. There was a cause worth fighting for - a cause worth Graham's life. He might be prone to thinking that Garringer was just a heartless son of a bitch, but the steadfast gentleness by Graham's side told another story.

It had to be some cause. Brian had never believed in anything strong enough to die for.

But then, Brian had never believed in much of anything at all.

-o-

Brian had worked more than his share of double shifts - hell, since coming to Africa, he'd occasionally worked for three or four shifts, stealing quick naps in an on-call room just to get through. He'd been on his way home when he'd been snatched from the parking garage, so he knew that he was reasonably tired, but he'd never fallen asleep on the job before.

Of course, at the hospital, there was always something to do. A patient to see, a chart to check. Here, all he could do was monitor Graham's vitals and warily watch as Garringer paced the confines of the small space. He changed the IV, checked for urine output, helped clean up during the active phases of the fever, but beyond that...

Well, it was the first time in Brian's life that he'd actually been bored as a doctor.

Bored wasn't quite the right term. He couldn't be _bored,_ in the sense that Graham's life was in his hands - and could very well impact how Brian fared when this whole thing was over. Keeping Graham alive was a pressing, overwhelming need.

Yet, despite all of his fiddling, there really wasn't much he could do.

So when Graham lapsed back into sleep after a bout of chills and nausea, Brian couldn't help it if he did, too.

He'd thought it'd be just for a moment, propped up in the chair, head balanced on his hand as he slumped to the side. Just a moment...

In his mind, he dreamed about his residency, about his favorite attending who used to pick him for the best procedures. She taught him a lot, taking extra time with him, and when he asked why, she just grinned. "It could be because you're the best damn doctor I've seen come through here in terms of talent and know-how. But really, that's just half the story."

Brian cocked his head, confused.

"Right now we're throwing spaghetti at the wall with you," she told him. "I'm just waiting to see what sticks. What makes you tick, son. Do you love the human bowel? Do you have a passion for the heart? Maybe your steady hands belong up in the brain? You're going to need a specialty. Something to call your own. Someday you have to decide."

-o-

Brian woke with a start.

The vividness of the dream was unsettling, but more unsettling was Garringer, looming above him.

Brian blinked up, craning his head and shrinking away, fearing the worst.

But then Garringer held out his hands.

Brian squinted at it, still getting his bearings.

He wrinkled his nose. "What's that?"

"It's soup," Garringer said, still holding the steaming bowl out to Brian.. "I realize it's tasteless and still has a higher salt content than should be legal to sell, but it's all we have."

It was a little surreal, in all honesty. Being abducted and threatened...and then fed soup. But Brian's stomach grumbled, and he realized that he didn't even remember when he'd last eaten. Meagerly, he reached out and took the bowl.

Garringer moved away, heading back to Graham's bedside. Brian scooped a spoonful into his mouth, wincing at the heat, and glanced over to Graham.

"There's been no change," Garringer reported, settling down next to Graham. He dutifully removed the washcloth, wetting it in the water bucket next to the bed and wringing it out before he placed it back on Graham's forehead. "I figure we have another hour or so before we have another episode, if the previous pattern is anything to go by."

Brian took another bite, giving Graham a cursory look. His complexion was even more yellow - evidence that the medication wasn't have much effect - and he was starting to look gaunt. The planes of his face were stark and overly defined, mouth open as he started to noticeably wheeze for air. "Has there been any urine output?" he asked, lifting his head a little to look.

Garringer shook his head curtly, making no audible reply.

Brian's stomach flipped. They'd been here too long and he'd already had a bag of saline - there should have been something by now. If he was in kidney failure...

Garringer refused to look at him, steading preoccupying himself with Graham. He shifted the blankets, hiking them higher and settling them neatly over the length of Graham's lanky form. The small movement seemed to rouse Graham, who stirred, his head tossing and eyes fluttering as he whimpered weakly.

Without hesitation, Garringer moved closer, adjusting the cloth on Graham's head, even as the other man started tossing fretfully. The low litany of moans from the Scotsman was hard to make out at first, but then he seemed to be seized with pain, crying out loudly and breaking with a sob.

"Casey...," he said, almost begging the word. "The mission, Casey. We can't leave them without backup. Casey, please. Please don't leave them...don't leave, Casey-"

Garringer's face was sheet white, but he didn't hesitate, reaching out his hand and settling it on Graham's face. "Hey," he said. "I already told you. No one's leaving anyone, okay?"

Graham sobbed again, eyes open but unseeing and he writhed.

But Garringer did not move. He kept his hand steady until Graham somehow met his gaze. "No one's leaving," he said again, the words clear and unyielding. "Including you."

There was a brief moment of understanding, even in Graham's fever-strained eyes. It was unspoken, but the message had been delivered; a promise had been made.

The stand had been taken.

By both of them.

And suddenly this wasn't just Garringer's idea. It was Graham's, too. This was the bond that Brian had never understood in the hospital, not just friendship or even brothers-in-arms. The kind of bond forged only by joint purpose, by life and death.

By death.

It hadn't been Garringer's idea to stay out this far; it had probably been Graham's. They'd made the choice together, though. And they were ever resolute. Garringer would kidnap and steal and possibly condemn his friend to death - because he had something that he believed in.  
_  
Something to call your own. Someday you have to decide.  
_  
Graham had, and Garringer had had no choice but to agree.

And Brian hadn't.

That had never bothered him before.

For the first time, he thought maybe it should.

-o-

Sometimes medicine was dramatic. Sometimes it was saving a life on the table, pulling someone back from the brink, literally holding their heart in your hands.

Sometimes it was just a slow and steady fight that Brian had no control over at all.

Sure, he did what he could. He changed Graham's IVs, administered what little meds he had. He checked his vitals, rolled him on his side periodically, and made sure he didn't aspirate when he no longer roused to vomit. They stripped the bed to keep him cold, sponging him off with damp rags in a last ditch effort to keep the fever from literally frying his brain.

It was a chaotic fight, punctuated with terrifying moments of stillness when Graham was so ashen and still that Brian was sure they'd lost it all together. But when night gave way to morning, they were still fighting, and when Brian hung the third round of saline in the midday, Graham woke up.

He'd opened his eyes on and off throughout the night, but this time, his gaze was lucid, if exhausted. Brian scrambled next to him, reaching out to feel for his fever, but Graham wasn't looking at him.

His eyes were fixed over Brian's shoulder at Garringer.

"Hey," Garringer said, sounded guarded and rueful. "Are you done throwing up? It's starting to reek in here."

Graham smiled lazily. "You didn't leave."

"And neither did you," was Garringer's simple reply.

Feeling out of place, Brian fussed with the IV, adjusting the blankets when he saw the wet spot. It was awkward, maybe, to see a grown man wetting the bed, but Brian knew what it meant.

It meant that Graham's kidneys were functioning. It meant that the fever had probably broken, that the virus was past its peak.

It meant that Graham was getting better.

And somehow, Brian thought, it might mean a lot more than that - even if he wasn't sure what.

-o-

The downward descent had been fast and terrifying, even for a trained medical professional. The recovery, however, was slow and hard won.

And very, very awkward.

Graham continued to wake more often, each time staying awake longer and being more coherent. Garrigner managed to get him to eat and drink, and after several hours they'd helped Graham to the bathroom to change and clean up. Brian fumbled with the sheets on the bed - these were tasks that he'd never had to do - and by the time Garringer half-carried Graham back to the bed, Brian was convinced he'd taken his support system for granted at the hospital.

By evening, the fever was almost low grade again, and Graham's skin had lost its yellowish hue. He was still pale, but starting to sit up and joking hoarsely as Garringer putzed around the room playing housemaid before dozing off mid-story back into an easy sleep.

This was all good. Things were well on their way to being better.

Which meant...

Well, Brian wasn't sure what it meant. He'd been taken against his will, thrown into the back of a car and driven to the middle of nowhere. He'd been ordered to treat a patient, and now that he had, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He could leave, probably, but he wasn't sure where he was or which way to go. He could ask for a ride, but somehow he didn't think that Garringer was in any mood to start gallivanting around now that Graham was awake enough to know.

The most reasonable thing, of course, would be to take Graham to a hospital anyway and see if there was any lingering damage and to ensure that he was really on his way to recovery.

Though, even though Garringer had proved himself not to be entirely heartless, he was still mostly a psychopath, so Brian knew better than to actually make such a common sense suggestion.

Instead, he decided that the direct approach would be best.

After making sure that Graham was sleeping peacefully, he went over to the kitchen where Garringer was fastidiously cleaning the dishes from their latest round of soup.

"So," Brian said, swallowing hard and bolstering his resolve. "He's going to be okay."

"Thank you for your expert medical opinion," Garringer said snidely.

Brian sighed. "What I mean to say is that you don't need me here anymore."

Garringer paused, glancing back at Brian. "He was dying no more than six hours ago."

"I know," Brian said. "But by all accounts, he's turned the corner. If you let me go, I can go back to the hospital with the sample of his blood I took and run it through the lab. Then we can make sure his kidneys and liver haven't suffered any permanent damage."

It was a very reasonable request; plus, by framing it that way, this was less about Brian, more about Graham, which Garringer had proven mattered to him significantly.

Garringer's lips quirked into a wry smile. "And I'm supposed to believe that you'll just come back out of the goodness of your heart?"

"On my honor," Brian pledged.

"You're a doctor working under the pretense of humanitarian principles when it's quite obvious you hate it here," Garringer replied. "I'm not sure your honor is really all that appealing."

"Hey, I saved his life, didn't I?" Brian asked defensively.

Garringer raised his eyebrows.

"You said it yourself," Brian said, "if I had wanted to go, I would have."

"And so if you come back," Garringer said, eyeing him carefully. "I can trust you'd come back alone? I did kidnap you, after all."

That was a point, maybe one he hadn't quite let himself think about. He'd been so focused on getting out, that the idea of what to do next had been a little vague for him. That was often how he was: so focused on the immediately problem that he failed to see the full effect of the long term complications. Really, that was how he'd ended up in Africa in the first place.

And for all his thoughts of revenge and justice, it did seem like sort of a moot point now. Besides, he became keenly aware of the possibility that Graham's death wouldn't be the only thing that might threaten his own life. Just by being here was suspect.

After all, if they weren't security contractors, Brian still didn't know who they were or who they worked for. They said they were the good guys, but they lied and snuck out on hospital bills and kidnapped doctors. Brian could very well know too much - he could be a loose end.

His stomach roiled, and he shook his head. "I promise," he said. "I'll come back. Just me and the results and enough medicine to make sure he recovers."

Brian had a certain earnestness about him. It made him good in job interviews and better with patients. People_ wanted _to believe him, even when he was lying or making everything up.

Garringer, however, did not seem impressed.

Finally, he shook his head with a sigh. "Fine," he said.

Brian blinked, surprised. He had expected a bit more of an argument. "Fine?"

"Fine," Garringer said again, going back to his cleaning.

Brian found himself unable to move.

Garringer glanced at him again. "Unless you'd rather stay..."

Brian startled into action. "No, that's okay," he said. Then he hesitated. "But, um, how-"

"Keys are by the door," Garringer said, putting a clean bowl on the counter. "Just take the road due south and you'll run into a main road sooner than later."

Garringer picked up a glass and started scrubbing it in the sudsy water. He wasn't going to stop Brian. It could be a trap...

But it was also a way out.

Brian didn't intend to cower and beg, and he'd stayed and done what he had to do. Now he had every right to leave. He _would _leave.

And he didn't want to look back.

-o-

It took all his self control to walk to the door. His fingers were numb when he grabbed the keys, and he was barely able to open the door without shaking. Outside, it was dark, the sky twinkling with stars. When the door closed behind him, he broke into a run.

He was fumbling over the dirt, heart pounding violently by the time he reached the car. It wasn't locked, but he still grappled uselessly with the handle for a moment, before it swung open and he clambered inside. Sweat slicked his fingers as he shoved the keys in the ignition, muttering to himself, "Come on, come on, come on."

When they slid in, he turned it hard and the engine roared to life with such force that Brian yelped in relief. Without hesitation, he pushed down on the brake and slammed the car into gear, jerkily turning the vehicle down the dirt road and away from the house.

Away from Graham, recovering from yellow fever. Away from Garringer, and his messed up way of helping a friend.

Just _away._

Some choices had to be made, and this was one Brian was making unequivocally. He'd stayed when he had to, but now that the patient was recovering, now that it was_ safe..._

He was pushing 90 by the time he got to a main road, and he had to swerve so hard that he nearly skidded clear off the pavement. He jarred, smacking his head against the window while the world rocked precariously. When his vision cleared, he found that he was on the side of the highway, engine idling, pointing south.

Pointing toward home.

Or the closest thing he had.

It'd been a day. Twenty-four hours. He'd thought he was going to die more than once, he'd thought Graham was going to die most of the time. He hadn't known what Garringer was going to do - and he hadn't wanted to find out.

He hadn't wanted any of this. He hadn't wanted to stay there, he hadn't wanted to watch as Graham struggled against the fever, the delirium, the weakness. He hadn't wanted to watch helplessly, unable to do anything. He hadn't wanted to be taken by force from the parking garage and forced to help someone he would have willingly aided in the hospital anyway.

He didn't even want to be _here,_ in Africa. Hell, he wasn't even sure he really wanted to be a doctor. These things had just happened because life had worked out that way. He wasn't sure what made him happy.  
_  
Something to call your own. Someday you have to decide.  
_  
Someday, before it was too late. Someday, before his entire life was gone and he was still a doctor in Africa, getting abducted out of parking garages because he hadn't realized that the next challenges wasn't always what he wanted.

What he _needed._

Right now, on the side of the road, head throbbing and heart pounding, Brian was suddenly sure of just one thing: he wanted to go home.

The sob that shook him was unexpected, and he nearly choked on it. The next was ripped out of him with such force that it hurt.

By the third, he gave in and dropped his head forward on the steering wheel and cried.

-o-

He wasn't sure how long he sat on the side of the road, crying like a baby, but when he was done, he felt weak and spent. Sniffling, he put the car into gear again, easing it back on the road and down the highway. It didn't take long until the roads were ones he recognized, and by the time he got back to the city, it was just after midnight.

Exhausted as he was, Brian knew that going back to his apartment wasn't really the answer. He wanted to go home, but the sparse one room dirthole was hardly anything resembling an actual getaway. He spent most of his time at the hospital as it was.

As he turned onto the main drag through town, he thought about going to the police again. Swamped and questionably corrupt as they were, they were still the best people to report a kidnapping to. Either that, or he could try the American consulate. They were supposed to take care of people in times of need.

He ended up at the hospital anyway. It was a little like autopilot, he figured, and he was too exhausted to resist his body's natural inclinations. He still had Graham's blood, after all, and without refrigeration it would only be a viable sample a little longer. Even if Brian did go to the police, it would only be right to make sure Graham really was going to be okay.

This time, he parked on the street, leaving the keys in Garringer's car and going in the main entrance. He found it overcrowded, which was a bit unexpected for the time of night, and he was badly frisked by the night security guard who had apparently never bothered to learn who the actual doctors on staff were.

Then again, as he made his way through the ER, maybe the extra caution was warranted. Things had been bad when he left, but it was positively overrun now. Almost all the beds were full, and people had been forced to pair up in the curtains. The waiting room was overflowing, and police and military guards were rampant, with patients handcuffed to their beds.

As he crossed the desk, he nearly ran into Dr. Erbe, one of the few people on staff who could actually speak English.

"Dr. Doyle!" he said. "I did not think you were going to show tonight!"

Brian frowned. "I, um-"

"Your shift started thirty minutes ago," Erbe said. He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "Do not worry. I covered for you. You can still make up the time on rounds."

Brian's mouth opened, ready to protest, ready to explain. Ready to tell Erbe that he hadn't been here because he'd been _kidnapped,_ that he wasn't late, that he was just barely escaped. That he could have _died,_ and that the last thing on his mind was _rounds._

But then, he closed his mouth. No one had even missed him. If it had been him, suffering from yellow fever or nursing a gunshot wound, no one would have been there to take him in or to kidnap a doctor. No one would have known at all.

Graham was too talkative; Garringer was insane. But they were committed to each other - and whatever cause they were involved in. Brian liked to think he was the better person - what with not kidnapping people and holding them against their will - but suddenly, he wasn't so sure.

He wasn't sure about anything.

No one had even missed him. Brian had feared for his life, and no one had even thought twice.

It was something of a gut punch.

Shoulders slumping, he smiled weakly. "Thanks," he said. "I just, um. Got tied up with a patient." He lifted the vial of blood out of his pocket. "Need to make a trip to the lab."

Erbe grinned at him, slapping him on the shoulder. "Always a good worker!" he said jovially. "Dr. Doyle is a good man!"

Erbe was ready to move on, edging past Brian but Brian turned to stop him. "Hey," he said.

Erbe turned.

Brian pursed his lips, nodding around. "What's with...this?"

"Ah," Erbe said, coming back, even closer than before. "This is a very, very good thing."

Brian lifted his eyebrows. Mass casualties and swamped ER were rarely _good._

"Most of these are from the cell," he said, voice hushed. "Most of them are being arrested and processed, charges so secure that not even government bribing can spare them from the effects."

Brian shook his head, a little confused. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Erbe said. "The cell has been...how do you say? Taken apart. Whoever is left, they will have to start from scratch. No more violence. No more fear. Tonight is a very, very good night."

The cell had been taken apart. Brian huffed a laugh. "Do they know who did it?"

"No," Erbe said. "And I suspect we never will. But they are heroes, each and every one. They have spared us much trouble. They have spared us much pain. Heroes."

This time, when Erbe walked away, Brian had nothing to keep him. Heroes, he thought, thinking of Graham and Garringer. The good guys, they said. If they had been involved in this, then it probably made sense why Graham couldn't come in. With this many casualties, every terrorist in the city had been injured or arrested.

Heroes.

Brian looked at the vial again.

Garringer and Graham had clearly followed through. Maybe now it was Brian's turn.

-o-

After turning in Graham's bloodwork, Brian somehow finished his rounds. Though they were overcrowded, there were few emergent cases, and with the abundance of law enforcement, there wasn't really much to do.

So Brian slept.

Hard.

The minute he laid down in the on-call room, he was out, a deep and dreamless sleep, so thick and cloying that he might as well fallen into a blackhole-

Until the light was switched on.

Brian jerked, sucking in hard. He grimaced, swallowing with effort and looking bleary-eyed at the door.

"Labs," the nurse said, short and to the point, holding out the clipboard.

Brian blinked, clearing his head. Labs. What labs...

He shook his head, getting groggily to his feet. "Thanks," he said, taking the clipboard as the nurse turned promptly away.

Brian had to squint as he looked down. It took him a few moments to process the numbers. Signs of anemia, decreased but rebounding kidney function. Liver enzymes were low but acceptable, but the patient was otherwise seeming to recover.

The patient.

Graham.

With that memory, Brian finally came to full awareness, looking over the lab results again. Graham was going to be fine.

Sitting there, barely awake in the on-call room, Brian thought that made at least one of them.

-o-

He worked the rest of the day. On and off, he considered going to the police - there were enough of them on hand - but he never quite found the words. He could probably provide a solid lead on both Garringer and Graham - he had Graham's blood and if Garringer's car was still outside, there were bound to be prints.

But the longer Brian went, the less point he saw in it. Who would believe him anyway? He was unharmed and free - Garringer had choked him out but otherwise not laid a hand on him. It could be some form of aggravated assault, but with everything that was going on, the police had bigger problems.

Everyone had bigger problems.

Everyone had bigger causes.

Everyone seemed to be fighting for something. It could be love or family, money or fame. It could be the right thing, it could be world peace. It could be curing cancer or feeding the hungry. It could even be friendship and the good of the people closest to them.

Brian had spent his life fighting...just to win. He didn't care what, he just wanted to be first. He'd thought that made him a better person, or a better doctor at least, but now he wasn't so sure.

He didn't go around kidnapping people out of parking garages, but what did he do? Half-ass his job and wish like hell of the next challenge? He didn't agree with Garringer, but maybe his cause was worth it. If it had stopped a reign of terror, then it had to be worth it. If it was worth Graham's life...

Some causes were worth it. Garringer stood for something. Graham stood for something.

Brian didn't.

The realization was cold, that maybe even though he was the doctor in Africa, serving the greater good and helping humanity, maybe he was the lesser man.

Maybe he had every right to tell the police, but that wasn't a cause worth fighting for. Brian could fight this one to win...

Or he could fight to do the right thing.

Seemed like there was maybe a first for everything.

-o-

By the end of Brian's shift, he was more than a little rundown. He couldn't actually remember when he'd last been home - in fact, he wasn't sure what day it was anymore. Really, though, he found it didn't matter. Patients came; patients went. They worked steadily through the injured terrorists in the unit, discharging most of them into police custody. Some of the heavy hitters were taken directly by the military, and there were a suspicious number of men in suits stopping by that seemed to take over charts and paperwork without so much as a word.

Brian might have balked before, but he didn't see much point now. It wasn't that the ends always justified the means, but Brian was willing to accept that there were things he didn't know - and sometimes that was for the best.

The fact was, he had other things on his mind. True, he longed for a deep 12-hour sleep, but that could come later.

First, he had a house call to make.

-o-

For a while, Brian wasn't sure he was actually going the right way. The first time he'd been on this route, he'd been trussed up in the back of a car. The second time, he'd been half-hysterical, too shell shocked and desperate to look for landmarks.

Still, he was fairly certain he was going the right way, and when he came to the turn, it still felt right. As he worked his way up the dirt path, seeing the building in front of him, it was all familiar.

Stopping the car, he put it in park and looked up through the windshield. The first time he'd been here, he'd thought he was going to die. When he'd left, he'd had no real intention of coming back - ever.

But, here he was.  
_  
Something to call his own.  
_  
Sighing, he pulled out the keys and reached for the stack of files next to him. With a steadying breath, he opened the door and stepped out.

It was almost twilight, so there was enough light to see, even as the darkness approached. He crossed the dirt yard after several paces, and at the door, he hesitated. He could still run. He could still go.

But he wasn't going to.

Resolved, he knocked.

For a long moment, there was no reply. Glancing around, Brian realized that without a car, there should have been no way for Graham and Garringer to go anywhere. Although, given what Graham had said about backup, given the number of terrorists back at the hospital, Brian figured it was likely that they hadn't been the only people around.

Which meant they were probably gone. Whisked off to do whatever it was they did. That was probably why Garringer had let him go in the first place - because he'd wanted Brian gone as much as Brian wanted to be gone. If Garringer had been worried at all about leaving Brian as a loose end, he never would have let him go in the first place.

Brian looked down at the files in his hand with a sigh.

He shouldn't have come. He didn't know what he had expected, but it seemed silly now. To come all this way, to offer two strangers so little...

Then, the door opened.

Hopeful, Brian looked up, expecting to see Garringer's dour expression or even Graham's grinning face.

But it was neither.

It was a man, older than him. Plain face and brown hair. He regarded Brian skeptically. "Can I help you?"

Brian stopped and found himself faltering. "I, um. I was looking for two guys."

The man looked unimpressed. "That's pretty vague."

Brian's cheeks flushed. "They were here yesterday," he clarified. "I helped them out a little. One of them was sick."

The man seemed to be studying him, scrutinizing him carefully. "They left," he said finally, his expression inscrutable.

Brian felt his heart sag. It was irrational, but he was disappointed. "Oh," he said. "I just had their...paperwork." He looked at the file in his hand. He'd grabbed everything - even from Garringer's first visit. If they had wanted to be off the record, Brian could make that happen. It was against hospital policy, but...

But it didn't matter anyway.

"If you want to leave it with me, I'll make sure they get it," the man said suddenly.

Brian looked at him, skeptical.

The man shrugged. "Graham wanted to stay, but Garringer was going to murder him if they had to stay here any longer," he said. "You know how they are."

Brian did - he didn't know _them, _but he still knew that.

"They wanted to say thank you," the man continued, more carefully now. "And that goes from me, too. Graham and Garringer - they're good men. You did a good thing."

Brian found himself laughing. "Did I?"

"Yeah," the man said without missing a beat. "You did." He hesitated. "I'm sure you have questions, and if I could tell you-"

Brian shook his head. It was funny. He _did _have questions. About who they were, about what they were doing here.

But those were the questions that didn't matter.

Not when Brian had so many questions to answer about himself.

"Nah," he said, stepping forward and holding out the files. The man took them, a little gratefully. Brian shrugged. "Seems like you guys know what you're doing."

And now it was time for Brian to figure out the same.

-o-

Brian went back to work. This wasn't exactly the life he'd chosen, but he was starting to think it wasn't so bad. There were good people; he was doing good things. It wasn't the best, it wasn't the most exciting, but it was something.

He started to make friends; he started to write home more often. And when a volunteer was needed to run a clinic out in one of the rural regions, this time Brian volunteered.

Dr. Erbe pulled him aside, fully surprised. "That is not like you, Dr. Doyle," he said, almost concerned.

Brian found himself smiling. "Well," he said, shrugging. "People can surprise you."

People like Graham, who knew how to be serious when it counted. People like Garringer, who knew how to be gentle even after committing felonies.

People like Brian, who'd spent his life fighting to win - and now wanted to fight for something that mattered.

Maybe helping the poor in Africa wasn't it. In fact, it seemed entirely possible that it wasn't. But, for now, it seemed like a hell of a good place to start.


End file.
